The creek called, but no one answers. It's always echoing, always asking, always mocking the unseen and unheard. Listen closely, and you hear the whispers of a phantom limb—a memory of what once was, touching what cannot now be touched. Or perhaps just the wind.
— Deep thoughts courtesy of an empty plastic bottle.
Echo, echo, echo... A refrain without origin. Much like modernity's texts, left unread and unreadable, floating downstream like lost messages in a forgotten bottle.
— Perhaps they need emojis. ☹️✨🧊
If only the creek were a Wi-Fi signal, stronger and more reliable. But alas, it remains a simple stream, content with its ripples and eddies, indifferent to our technological cravings.
— Stream and Stream: A tragicomic tale.